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The Id, by Nytie
Author's Notes: This story takes place some time after Ultimate X-Men #46, but ignores pretty
much everything after that (especially the RoLo kiss --- ugh! :p). Though it stands
independently of my other Ultimate X-Men stories, it can also be read in conjunction with
"Heaven Bound" and "Pain and Pleasure." Where the timeline is concerned, "Heaven Bound" comes
first, "Pain and Pleasure" second and "The Id" third. For the purposes of this story, I'm sticking to Brian Michael Bendis' earlier characterization of Angel rather than Brian K. Vaughan's more idealistic version. That's 'cause I like my woobies angsty, pitiful and with a slightly skewed view of the world.
"The Id" contains angst, adult language and graphically described sexual intercourse. If you're not into that sort of thing, then please feel free to move on to fluffier pastures. In the nights, it's easier. There's no space or time for thinking during the nights. When he's buried inside her, when she closes over him like the darkness, it's easy to forget what drives her to him. It sure as hell isn't love, though he wants more than anything to believe that it is. No, it's a lot simpler than that. It's nothing more or less than the need to fuck and be fucked, to own and be owned, to lust and have that lust sated. Desire is often overpowering, you see, and he's not the only one who needs to forget. Far from it. She stands in front of him, stripped to the skin, bared but somehow guarded. He thinks to himself, Christ, she's beautiful (and she is, even in the dark she's beautiful), but the thought fills him with a muted kind of despair. She kisses him hard, sliding her knee between his thighs. His penis jumps at the contact, but otherwise he sits perfectly still and lets her lead for a while. She continues to kiss him, her hands roaming freely over his bare chest, and moves into the curve of his body, rubbing her thigh harder against his groin. Without thinking, he rests his hand on her crotch, running his fingers over the coarse, curly patch of hair that nests there. She spreads her legs wider, inviting him in. She no longer has to guide him; this is familiar territory to him now. His fingers explore the warm, slick folds of her skin and, finding her already throbbing clitoris, proceed to circle it slowly. Once. Twice. A hiss escapes her, low and desperate and animal-like against his ear. That sound would have made him jump out of his skin at any other time, but right now, it's just about the most erotic thing he's ever heard. It drives all coherent thoughts from his head, makes him harder, makes him work more frantically inside her. Deeper. Faster. She throws her head back, her ruined hair spilling over her shoulders as she rocks herself deeper against his fingers. "Oh, God! Oh, Jesus!" By this time, his cock is pressing painfully against the fabric of his pants. Seeing this, she breaks away from him long enough to help him shed them, then deftly rubs the cleft of her vulva against his penis. The friction is sweet and damn near explosive. With a guttural groan, he grabs her by the waist and flips her onto the bed, pressing himself across the length of her body. His hands wander, seemingly of their own volition, over the familiar landscape of her body: the lean thighs, silken skin stretched taut over hipbones, the slope of her stomach and the smooth curves of her breasts. He runs his thumbs over the dark chocolate nipples, feeling them become erect under his touch. She feels too soft, too breakable beneath his hands. But he knows this is as much an illusion as anything here is. As if losing patience with him, she pulls him down to her and kisses him fiercely, possessively. She never does anything by half, this girl. It's always one extreme or the other. He responds in kind, caressing her more roughly. The dance is changing now, more quickly than he likes. There's nothing gentle about it anymore. Everything becomes raw and angry and frustrated: the kisses, the touches, mouths and tongues clashing, hard muscle against soft skin, fingers tangled painfully in gold and silver hair. He knows why. He knows why she never wants to be gentle, why she always likes it rough. Life has fucked all the gentleness out of her. Hank's death --- the last thing he wants to think about at this time and the one thing he always does --- was just the last straw. And this, whatever it is they have, is nothing more than a sad, violent imitation of something that's supposed to be tender and loving and pure. And though he knows he'll hate himself in the morning, he'll take it. He'll fuck her senseless. He'll let her bite and bruise him with her fingers and her hard kisses. He'll swallow the reality and its bitter taste and he'll take what he can get because he knows he can't have the real thing. It's not in her to give, not anymore. As she spreads herself open below him, a dark and beautiful goddess wrapped in the shadow of his wings, he thinks briefly that it's not so bad. He can pretend. He can imagine that she is his, his to protect, his to treasure, his to love. He poises his now fully erect member at the tip of her entry and slams it home. And oh, Jesus, she's so warm, so tight and so fucking warm he could have wept out loud. He slides out, only vaguely aware of the juices coating his penis, and rams into her again, even as she expands to receive him. Her fingernails dig deep into his back, almost drawing blood. He uses the pain, an impetus to thrust himself deeper and harder into her, again and again and again. She cries out, reflexively tightening her thighs around his hips. He knows he's hurt her, but damn if they don't both enjoy it. She's matching him thrust for thrust now, their pace quickening, their breaths shortening. He buries his face between her breasts, and the smell of her, of lust and sweat and musk, is almost enough to send him over the edge. She gives out a muffled scream --- he doesn't need to look up to know she's biting down hard on her lip to stop herself --- and he wishes, stupidly, irrationally, that she'd say his name just once, to let him know that she knows who's holding her, who's shouting her name, who's fucking her straight into the mattress. (Is it so terrible? Is it so bad to want to be recognized?) She doesn't say his name. She never does. Instead, she climaxes with a wordless cry, and he follows soon after, his chest surging forward as he comes. They lie still for a while, breathless and spent, until he breaks away from her and withdraws to his side of the bed. In the silence that follows, he can almost hear her slipping away from him, retreating into her own thoughts like she has too often since Hank's death. There isn't much that keeps her around these days; solitude is all she craves when she isn't with him. He understands that better than she thinks. When all the world promises is rejection and loss and grief, it's easier to be alone --- whether it's in a mansion crowded with classmates or empty of everyone but servants. Still, as he closes his eyes and wills sleep to overtake him, he can't help but think of the Ideal: of a girl who isn't ashamed to call him her own, of someone to share the nights and the mornings with. That's not so much to ask for, is it? To be loved, free from the ghosts of the past; to be seen; to come into the light like real angels do? He knows... he knows it's stupid to want these things. They can never happen --- not for him and not with her. But he can't help himself. He'll hang on to the dream for as long as he can. It's all he really has now. And in the morning, she's gone. Back to Fan Fiction |
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